Visiting Graves
by lamentomori
Summary: After recording his episode of the Art of Wrestling, Dean is assured that Punk is dead. Punk may well be but Phil is alive and well. Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.
1. Visiting Graves

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

"Alright, that's us. Thanks man, I think it'll be a good one." Jon nods slightly as Cabana types at the computer on the desk. It hadn't felt too long and he's glad, he'd been mildly concerned that he'd get off topic, on to the one thing he really wanted to know from the other man. It had been burning in the back of his mind, all the way through this interview.

"Is he okay?" He asks, proud that he'd waited till after all of the recording equipment was stashed away and the interview saved onto Cabana's computer.

"Who?" Jon almost smiles, who indeed, did he really need to ask?

"Punk." At this Cabana laughs and shakes his head.

"Punk is dead, man." The smile on his face is easy-going and free but the look in his eyes is hard and cold.

"Sure, he is." Jon nods, Cabana's smile doesn't waiver and his eyes don't soften. He wasn't around when those two were together on the Indys, only crossed Cabana's path a couple of times really but he's heard stories; loyalty like this is something so rare in this business, an honest bond in a world of falsehood and lies. "What he die of?"

"Gonorrhoea." Cabana says, nothing in his tone changes, light and easy, as though this was a mildly amusing truth and Jon stands, holding back a sigh. He'd known there would be no point in asking Cabana, you'd get more answers out of an actual corpse than the man Punk calls his best friend. "Thanks again, man." Cabana stands and seems to be ushering him out, a brief hug and then his door closed in Jon's face.

He hadn't meant to come here, what he'd meant to do was go back to the hotel, get ready for the show. Yet, here he is, his hand hovering over the call button, wondering what the hell he's doing. Punk has made it clear that he doesn't want to talk to anyone about what's happened, doesn't want to explain his actions, the stonewalling from Cabana confirms that as surely as the unreturned text messages and ignored calls do.

"You know, if you're visiting the dead, it's customary to bring flowers." Jon closes his eyes and lets those words sink in. He's not heard that voice in weeks, so many weeks; it feels like a balm of sorts, soft and calming. "Why are you here?" He looks at him and for the first time in months, possibly for as long as he's known Punk, he looks healthy.

"Aren't you gonna invite me in?" Jon leans against the door and lets his eyes roam over the other man. His hair has grown some, the top long and messy, the bags under his eyes smaller, he looks good, even if he is dressed ridiculously, shorts, in a Chicago winter and two coats, one of which Jon vaguely remembers seeing laying on the back of Cabana's couch, more than likely he was there the whole time, listening in.

"No." His tone is short and clipped. He walks up the steps and stands by Jon. "Why are you here?"

"I..." Jon sighs and shakes his head. "You change your number or you just ignoring me?" Punk laughs and opens the door, not closing it behind him, an invitation to follow him into his home.

"Not talking would be an indication, to most everyone else, I wasn't interested in them." He says as he toes off his shoes and starts up the stairs, not looking back, trusting that Jon would be behind him. The heavy door closing sounds incredibly loud in the deserted stairwell, Jon hangs his coat by the door and kicks off his sneakers. Punk leads the way into his home, Jon trailing behind, eyes focussed on his back. Jon has been here, maybe, twice before, every time it was a flying visit and the place had felt much like his own, there were _things_ here and there but it didn't feel lived in, now the main room feels different, less like a place where someone crashes and more like somewhere someone lives. A dirty mug forgotten on the table, cushions scattered on the floor where they've been kicked, the remote for the TV on the arm of the couch instead of by the set, little things that make a house feel like a home.

"I'm not most everyone else." Jon says, smiles slightly as Punk takes off his coats, throwing them on the couch and stepping closer.

"No, I guess not." It's been weeks since they've kissed, weeks since Jon has tasted this man and yet it feels exactly the same, his body moves in exactly the same way, his hands harsh and demanding as always, tugging on his hair, clutching at his shoulders.

"I want answers from you, you know." Jon says between kisses, his own hands groping at the other man, squeezing his ass.

"Hmm?" Punk smirks lazily, there are times when this man reminds Jon of a sphinx, all riddles and mysteries and yet he expects nothing but the truth from others. He starts walking backwards, leading the way to the bedroom, the few previous occasions Jon has been here, that was the only place he really saw. Each visit had been hurried, their relationship something started on a whim and never defined beyond mutually beneficial encounters, occasional advice and the warning that if Jon was looking to advance his career with sex, he was barking up the wrong tree, Punk wasn't influential enough to be of any benefit. When questioned on what he got out of the relationship, all Jon had gotten was one of those confusing sphinx riddles and a headache from trying to understand, the exact words forgotten thanks to the life of Mox, yet the tone is one Jon is sure he'll never forget. Frustration always colours the words of CM Punk but in everything he has said so far, it's been conspicuous by its absence.

In the bedroom, Jon stares at him, at a loss for words, stares and strokes the hair on his cheek. Punk strips and sits on the bed, eyebrow raised. Jon still stares, not quite sure how to proceed. Punk sighs, changes position and looks at him, eyes all narrowed and tense; body sprawled and relaxed, at total odds with himself, as always.

"What?" Jon asks, fidgeting slightly, there are times when Punk looks at him like he's under a microscope, times when that stare is too much to endure, makes him feel uncomfortable and small, like a transfer student being introduced half-way through term.

"I'll answer one." He says, shifting to prop himself up, head in one hand, displayed like he was going to ask Jon to paint him like a French girl. One question, Jon shakes his head and makes himself busy with undressing, pulling his shirt over his head, the rest of his clothes following quickly. He gets on the bed, kneels in front of the other man and regards him carefully. One question.

"Why?" Punk laughs softly and moves, kneels opposite him and kisses Jon carefully, one hand in his hair, no other contact beyond that and lips. His eyes shining with glee as he pulls away.

"Because." Jon scowls, hands grabbing at his shoulders, pulling back and kissing him thoroughly.

"Not an answer." He growls against Punk's lips, kissing him once more.

"Not really a question though, was it?" Punk laughs softly and withdraws from him, moves up the bed and opens a drawer in the nightstand, throwing a bottle of lube at Jon. "It's what you're here for right?" He asks, a lazy smirk on his lips. Jon catches the bottle and shrugs. He pulls at Punk's ankle, forcing him to lie flat on his stomach.

"Maybe, maybe not." Jon presses soft kisses over his shoulders and strokes his firm little ass; he missed this man's ass. Is it the only reason he's here, maybe, maybe not but it's certainly a part of the motivation.

"Maybe not?" Punk asks, laughter in his tone, Jon kisses his shoulder again and opens the lube, coating his fingers and parting Punk's ass cheeks, pressing one finger into his hole. Punk groans, his knees come up under himself, shifting to rest on his hands and knees whilst Jon preps him.

"Want you." Jon mutters against his back as he fucks into him, balls against his ass and Punk's fingers clenching in the bedclothes.

"Easy, it's been a while." He hisses and Jon withdraws, pressing apologetic kisses to his shoulder blades. He guides Punk to his back, spreads his legs and lines up with his hole carefully.

"Missed you." Jon breaths against his lips, brushing their mouths together softly, leaning back and cupping his face. "Missed this." He moves his hips back and forth a few times easing back into Punk's body, then stills, fully sheathed inside the other man's body, feeling him relax and adjust to being filled with Jon's cock.

"I see." He says dryly, eyes narrowed and focussed on Jon's own, his lips twisted in a wry little smirk.

"You miss me?" He asks, kissing his cheek and moving down to press kisses to his throat, worrying a small mark there. Punk doesn't complain, it surprises Jon, he always complains about having to get cover-up done. Jon rests his forehead against Punk's, not much chance of him coming back tonight, possibly any night, Jon thinks as he examines the mark. "Do you?"

"Hmm, I could be persuaded into it." He mutters, hips bucking, hands trailing up Jon's back to tangle in his hair, drawing him down for another kiss. Jon indulges the kiss, keeping it slow, in time with the gentle rocking of his hips. This isn't like the other times he's fucked Punk, this is something else, something softer, more careful. Punk's words, that Jon barking up the wrong tree for a leg up in his career, comes back to him. Maybe even back then, Punk had been planning on leaving, issuing a warning that starting this would be futile, only this isn't about Jon's career, it never was. It's something ill defined and mutually beneficial. He stares down at the other man's face, his eyes barely open but staring at him, a heavy dark gaze, the weight of it curiously comforting. Jon kisses him and speeds up, thrusting in earnest into the other man's body, Punk's back arching as he brushes against his prostate.

"You like that?" Jon asks, quietly smug. "You like my fat cock fucking your pretty little ass?" Punk's eyes snap open; he squirms out from under Jon, shoves him onto his back and grabs his cock, lowering himself onto it.

"If I wanted shitty dialogue, I'd watch porn. Shut up." Jon attempts a laugh but the tight warmth of Punk's body robs him of amusement. The other man sets the pace hard and fast, riding Jon with practiced ease. It's almost impossible to believe that Punk isn't some kind of well-practiced whore but the tightness of his body suggests otherwise, unless he only fucks very small cocks. Punk pinches one of Jon's nipples, bringing his attention from his thoughts and back on Punk. "Pay attention to me." He snaps and Jon nods, taking Punk's cock in his hand, stroking him slowly, at odds with the fast and hard motions of his hips. Jon comes first, body tensing and quivering beneath Punk, as the other man take a hold of his own cock, brings himself off with quick efficient strokes, coming in his hand quietly, eyes closed and head bowed. Jon takes his hand and licks the cum from it, Punk groaning softly and rising off of Jon's dick. He sighs and wipes his saliva-dampened hand on the comforter. Jon reaches out and snags his shoulders, pulling him down to rest against Jon's chest. He lies stroking Punk's sweat dampened hair for some time, feeling the weight and warmth of the body on top of him.

"You coming back?" It's a stupid question and the way Punk tenses and pulls away from him, answers more eloquently than words ever could. "Why'd you leave?" Punk starts getting dressed, his back staunchly turned. "Don't you miss it?" Jon's own clothes are gathered up in Punk's arms, when he finally turns to look at him. "Don't you miss this?" His clothes are flung at him and Punk leaves the room. Jon sighs and gets dressed, he'll shower in the hotel, probably, maybe at least, honestly, he'd like to keep the sweat and cum Punk spilled on him, a little longer, would like more of it but it seems that Punk is done, with the WWE and everyone there in.

He's waiting by the door, his eyes hard and unreadable, Jon's coat in his hands. He pulls Jon into a brief hug, draping the coat over Jon's shoulders and for the second time today, Jon finds himself staring at one of the many fine front doors in Chicago. Jon shakes his head and pulls his jacket on properly and starts walking away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a piece of paper crinkling beneath one of them. _The fuck?_ He thinks as he pulls the paper out and stares, a cell phone number and the words.

_I expect flowers next time - Phil_

* * *

_I felt kind of bad that all Dean got was some off camera in_ **Icarus **_so this is kind of paying him back for his kind services in that particular fic._

_I'd appreciate any all comments on Mr Ambrose, I've never tried to write him before so all thoughts are more than appreciated. _


	2. Look at the Flowers

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

It takes Jon a few days to get the time and perhaps the courage to try the number Punk gave him.

_hello - sent 08:03_

_Hello, Jon. Capital letters start sentences; you do know that, right? - 1-773-555-1026 08:16_

The reply confirms that at least this number connects to Punk or someone else as obsessed with attempting to bring correct grammar to the world of SMS. It fills Jon with something odd and unfamiliar, oddly like relief, as though there had been a part of him that expected Punk to have given him a number for a pizza place.

_i no butt itz m0r3 phun p1551ng u off :-* - sent 08:29_

_I hate you; truly utterly despise you. When you coming to visit? I need to know so I can be out. - CP MUNK 22:56_

He doesn't reply for hours and if Jon is honest, he's glad; there'd be no good explanation for why he'd be grinning at his cell phone like an idiot, to himself or anyone else. He's incredibly glad he has a room to himself and can grin as idiotically as he likes at his cell phone, as he tries to think of the worst ways to mangle the English language.

_sumthyme - sent 23:30_

_Fuck you. - CP MUNK 23:33_

_Good night, Punk. - sent 23:59_

_Remember my flowers! Good night. - CP MUNK 00:08_

_And it's Phil. - CP MUNK 00:13_

_You do know that you shouldn't start a sentence with a conjunction, right, Punk? - sent 00:17_

_Fuck you. - CP MUNK 00:19_

Spur of the moment decisions are the blight of being himself, it wasn't really a conscious decision to get on a plane to Chicago. The visit to the florist with a Walking Dead screen cap on his cell phone, asking for a bunch of flowers like the ones Lizzie looked at was though. One that might have consequences but then again it might not. Punk wouldn't want flowers in the first place, Phil, it's going to take some getting used to calling him Phil, has demanded them, twice now. Phil is a sentimental bastard, Punk was just a bastard, the later was much easier to deal with. Jon understood Punk as well as anyone could understand him, he was confusing, his words all smoke and mirrors but words can be interpreted, understood with time, not that Jon really put the time in but the potential was there. Whatever it was they had, it was ill defined, it never had a name or clarity, nothing more than two men seeking something mutually beneficial from each other. It wasn't something that he felt needed to be considered overly but now that Punk is gone, now that he's dead, it is perhaps something Jon should consider because Phil apparently has and Jon doesn't understand Phil in the least.

After pressing the buzzer, the door is opened quickly, as though someone had been standing by it, waiting. Jon starts, adjusting his grip on the flowers in his hand and meeting the gaze of the man at the door.

"Is Punk in?" He asks him and Cabana sighs dramatically, leaning against the doorframe.

"Punk is dead." He says slowly, as though talking to a very stupid child. Jon fidgets slightly and meets Cabana's gaze, being an over scrutinising bastard is a Chicago thing, he decides, all the cold weather affects people, makes them suspicious and judgemental.

"Oh yeah?" The urge to sigh and just leave, comes over Jon at Cabana's cold stare but he came here for a reason. He's wasting his only day off this week on this endeavour and no mildly annoying doorman is going to stop him, no matter how much Cabana looks at him like a science project gone wrong, he's here to see Punk. "What he die of?" Cabana smirks slightly, whatever he was looking for, he's found. He grabs his jacket, putting it on and stuffing his feet into his shoes, ignoring Jon for the most part until he's straightening his cap.

"Hay fever." He says with a smile that doesn't meet his eyes, as he barges past and talks to the pizza delivery guy who just arrived, pointing up at Jon and making vague shrugging motions. The pizza guy approaches and Jon realises that he's just been fobbed off with paying. Suspicious, judgemental and _cheap_ bastards are bred in Chicago.

"The fuck took you so long?" Punk shouts once Jon closes the front door, no sounds of movement so he's not overly interested in what had been keeping Cabana, obviously expecting him to be back eventually. "They send the hot chick again? You know she's gonna keep shooting you down, Colt." Jon doesn't bother answering, instead walking into the living room and dropping the flowers in Punk's lap.

"$29.95, plus tip." He says clearing the junk; magazines, scraps of paper with random doodles, a couple of coffee cups; to one side of the coffee table and sets the pizza box down.

"Cabana was paying not me." Punk says, suspicious, judgemental, _cheap_ lying bastards are bred in freezing hole of a city Jon thinks, scowling slightly at Punk. He shrugs and opens, taking a slice of pizza and going to the kitchen, returning with soda. He tosses one can to Jon, then sits back down. "Take it up with him."

"You know they've mostly stopped chanting your name." Jon mutters, as he sits on Punk's couch, feeling weird. He didn't come here to eat pizza and have a chitchat, he'd come for a fuck because apparently that offer is still open, he'd even brought the flowers he was asked for but instead he's watching some documentary about some weird fucking cult and sitting beside Punk. It feels _domestic_ and not at all like how he'd expected the day to go.

"Good, I'm not fucking Candyman." Punk mutters, curling up slightly, edging closer to Jon, looking more and more like he wants Jon to put his arm around his shoulder and pull him in tight. Jon carefully ignores this and steadfastly sips at his soda. The problem with something ill defined yet mutually beneficial is that it is ill defined, there is no classification for what is and isn't acceptable behaviour in this deal. This is a situation Jon never thought he'd find himself in, fucking Punk wasn't really about having a relationship, it was solely for their mutual benefit.

"No one's saying anything about it, you know but the _mood_, it's changed." Jon's fishing, hoping to poke and prod some kind of reaction out of Punk, irritation always resulted in the best fucks but all he does is murmur a soft _hmm_ and take another bite of his slice of pizza. "At first, it was kind of he'll be back, Vince'll fix it." Another _hmm_ and he seems to shift just a little closer, Jon frowns, glancing over at him but his eyes are unwaveringly fixed on the TV screen. "But now, it's all fuck Punk, if he can go be on TV on the other side of the country, why the fuck can't he come ten minutes down the road from his house." A third _hmm_ and Jon holds back a frustrated sigh. "Why the fuck didn't you come?" This question has Punk retreating back to the other side of the couch, leaning against the arm, knees under his chin, posture screaming leave me the fuck alone. "I'm just asking." Jon holds his hands up, feeling put out and confused.

"I'm not answering." Punk mutters, his hands moving up and down his shins. Jon considers the likely outcomes of this visit; his intended goal was to have fucked the other man by now, for the first time at least. That one fuck, earlier in the month, had shown him he missed Punk more than he'd first thought. Being with him again, had only made being away from him more frustrating and the pragmatic solution to missing Punk was, therefore, going to him. Only now that he's here, the sphinx bastard isn't talking and isn't playing fair. They finish the pizza in silence, Punk determinedly curled up away from Jon and Jon sitting stalk still, feeling more and more out of place, more and more tense. "Thank you for the flowers." He says eventually. Jon had forgotten about them, looks round the room and spots them beside the TV, bright and cheerfully yellow. The brief thought that perhaps Punk isn't actually watching the TV but looking at them instead, flickers through Jon's mind but he dismisses it as foolish, that's _too_ sentimental, even for Phil. He moves slightly, edges that little bit closer and Jon finds himself nodding aimlessly, staring at the TV, a flash of yellow just on the periphery of his vision.

Eventually Jon tires of staring at documentaries, no matter how interesting he begins to find them, there is always the constant awareness of Punk curled up just beside him, curled up a hairs width from him, curled up and waiting to be _cuddled_. It's annoying how this final fact causes Jon's brain to stall. Cuddling on the couch is too normal, too intimate, too much like being in a relationship for something that started with hurried trysts in cheap hotel rooms and snatched fucks on a tour bus between shows. Yet it seems to be what Punk wants and giving a little to get a lot is often how it goes with him. Jon moves his arm, wraps it around Punk's shoulders, draws him closer and feels him _melt_ against him, any tension in Punk flows away and he moulds himself to Jon's side. It's definitely not, what Jon had intended for the day but as his hand absently starts stroking through Punk's hair, it begins to feel more comfortable. His mind begins to shut down, for the first time in a long time, there aren't a thousand thoughts playing tag in his brain and it's _relaxing_. Another documentary down and Punk turns slightly, tilting his face to Jon's and kisses him, languid and thorough, his fingers trailing up Jon's cheeks, fisting in his hair. It's a kiss unlike any other they've shared, from how slow and careful it is, to the way Punk's hands are gently stroking, instead of tugging, his hair. Intimate seems to be what Punk is aiming for and Jon's mind lets a thousand different possibilities branch from this one realisation.

"Bed?" Jon asks eventually, pulling back from the soft kiss and holding Punk's face in hands, thumbs stroking the skin under his eyes. Punk nods slightly, something dull and odd in his eyes. Once in the bedroom, their kisses heat up, Jon taking more control, his tongue battling for and gaining dominance easily. Punk waving the white flag so very quickly, his hands still moving slow and soft through Jon's hair. It feels odd, more or less stripping Punk, Punk's hands moving over every inch of Jon's skin as he strips himself, petting him like a cat. It's odd and still far too _intimate_ for Jon's purposes, he came to fuck and fuck only, all this gentle kisses, soft strokes and cuddles were not on the menu. The last time he came here, it had been for answers, it had been for confirmation, continuation maybe and he'd gotten as much as Punk would ever offer of any of them, he'd accepted that, had accepted that he was getting what he'd done without for over a month back and now, he'd like it again, wants pushy insistent Punk, not soft cuddly Phil.

They end up on the bed, Jon between Punk's thighs, fingering him open with efficacy borne of need, Punk moaning softly, his hands curling in the comforter and cock slowly hardening. Jon stares down at him, at the lines of his body, the way his chest is rising and falling more rapidly than normal. Punk squirms slightly, arching his back, drawing Jon down for a kiss, soft and slow again.

"So, how'd you want this fat cock, baby?" Jon murmurs in Punk's ear and the other man scoffs.

"Should have known it was too good to be true." He mutters, his legs wrapping around Jon's waist, squeezing slightly before relaxing and letting Jon line his cock up. "All fucking day you were such a _good boy_." He sneers the last two words and bucks his hips. Jon huffs a soft laugh in his ear and enters him.

"You love it, love hearing me talk _dirty_." Jon groans and fucks into him slowly.

"Really, really don't." Punk snaps, his hips bucking, forcing Jon further into him, taking the entire length Jon has far more quickly than he'd intended to give it to him. "Shut up and fuck me." His heels press into the small of Jon's back, his eyes are difficult to see in the darkness of his bedroom. "It's what you've been after all day isn't it?" Punk murmurs as Jon begins to move.

"Maybe, maybe not." Jon mutters, trying to see Punk properly, cursing not turning on the lights before starting this. Punk laughs and presses his heels in again, his hips moving with Jon's own.

"You came to watch TV and cuddle?" His laugh fades into a soft moan and Jon thrusts into him firmly.

"Might have." Jon starts nipping at his throat, determined to leave not just one mark this time.

"You could have said." He moans, head tilting back, exposing his neck to Jon's teeth. Punk always wears vulnerability with bewildering strength, for all he appears to be submitting to Jon, it never feels quite that way. It always feels like stroking the fur of a lion, just waiting for those teeth and claws to be turn on him.

"Aww, _baby_, maybe I did just wanna cuddle." Jon laughs, it's kind of hilarious how much being called baby pisses Punk off. There's an infinite amount of amusement to be had at his expense but it can be too easy to push him too far, too easy to rile him up too much. Being kicked out is something Jon never got used to, going from being buried balls deep in Punk's ass to standing pulling his clothes on hurriedly in a corridor had happened more than once. Punk's a capricious bastard, he wants to be. He snarls, attempts to flip them over so that he's on top but Jon has no intention of letting that happen, he wants to bear down on the other man tonight, wants to press him into the bed and fuck down into him, wants him to remember who fucked him, wants him to remember Jon. "Shh, lie still. I'll be a _good boy_." Jon chuckles softly. Punk doesn't say anything, just lays still as he was asked to be, legs around Jon's waist, hands stroking his hair, eyes hidden in the shadows of his bedroom, as Jon fucks him, hard and deep, his moans soft and occasional.

Jon comes with his face buried against Punk's neck, teeth worrying at one of the many marks he's left there as he gathers himself once more and moves off the other man. Punk lies still, staring up at the ceiling for a while and without really thinking about it Jon catches his chin, turns his face to him. "You want me to get you off?" Punk laughs softly and shakes his head.

"Not in the mood." He turns away, lies on his side, his back turned to Jon. Jon runs one finger down his spine, leans over to press a kiss to his shoulder.

"Could have said." Jon's voice sounds odd to himself, something rough and jarring in it. This is the first time Punk has ever turned down getting off and Jon, he feels something like guilty, it's not a familiar feeling for him. It feels painfully like he's taken advantage of Punk and he doesn't like that feeling, doesn't like the way it churns in his stomach.

"It's fine. Go to sleep, Jon." Punk's voice is quiet, he sounds tired and Jon turns his back to him. They've never really shared a bed before. It's happened once, in some faceless hotel in some piece of shit town in the ass-end of nowhere. Jon had been half-drunk and Punk had been half dead with some illness or another, they spent the night kicking each other and Jon had been woken by a still sick Punk, smacking him on the head for a particularly impressive bruise on his thigh. As Jon lies, staring into the darkness, he can't help but think over the day, over everything that's happened. He can't help but conclude that this wasn't something he'd planned for, this was a case scenario that hadn't been considered and he isn't sure how he feels about that.

Late on in the night, something wakes Jon up, something overly warm and unfamiliarly heavy resting on him, jolting him from a dreamless sleep. He looks down to a mess of dull brown hair, the weight and warmth of Punk on top of him.

_"I'm a completely new person."_

His words from the _Talking Dead_, a completely new person who likes trying to flatten Jon whilst he sleeps, a completely new person who would rather cuddle on the couch than come in bed.

Jon's mind is buzzing a thousand different scenarios for what might happen in the morning. What would happen if Punk woke up alone? What would happen if Jon managed to free himself and spent the night with his back turned to Punk? What would happen if he woke Punk up now and fucked him again, brought him to orgasm and left like what was normal for them? The one scenario that he didn't consider is the one that happened. The one where he found his own flowers to look at, he found the thing that calmed his ever turning mind, drifting to sleep watching his fingers move through dull brown hair and listening to the sound Phil Brooks sleep. The one _what would happen if_ he didn't think of, the one where he stayed exactly where he was and was perfectly content with it.

* * *

******littleone1389, ****bitter-alisa, xLifeFullOfLaughterx, ****Brokenspell77, ****Rebellecherry, BadgerLynne & ****alizabethianrose**: Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Yes there is more PunkBrose, this is it. I don't usually write dialogue during sex, it annoys me immensely, I loathe _dirty_ talk in real life and in fics so I don't do it but for Deano it seems kind of appropriate. Uh... sorry for lumping you all together but it's late and I have to get up and watch kung fu in uh... 6 hours.

_So this is a direct sequel, second chapter, maybe, I'm not actually certain and rather concerned about that fact... I don't like not being certain. __I'd appreciate any all comments on Mr Ambrose, all thoughts are more than appreciated. **As such, reviews, comments, concerns and cake are always welcomed. (I'll let you off for not giving me cake.)**_


	3. Giving Eulogies

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

Waking up to the weight of Punk on top of him, was what Jon had expected. As he'd lain there last night, he'd come to the conclusion that Punk, _Phil_, wanted something more than a quick fuck, wanted to be cuddled and Jon had accepted that he'd still be on top of him in the morning. So when he wakes to an empty bed, he's confused. He can hear voices, indistinct and distant, Punk and based on the timbre of the other, Cabana somewhere else in the house. Punk's laughter is loud and clear, the rest of their conversation, barely audible but the louder moments of amusement drift to Jon. Something unexpected clenches in his chest but he ignores it and rolls over, pulling the blanket over his head. This whole endeavour has been _unexpected._ Take yesterday for example; it had been one unexpected event after another. From being out damn near thirty dollars for a pizza he hadn't wanted, to cuddling on the couch to Punk's refusing an orgasm, to laying awake for a good hour stroking Phil's hair and listening to him breathe, it was a day of painfully unplanned for events. As Jon had laid there running his fingers through Phil's dull brown hair, the churning feeling of _something_ hadn't left him, that odd feeling of taking advantage of Punk, squirming, wriggling worms of something painfully like guilt, had writhed and still do, in Jon's stomach. The whole thing, the whole day feels like a debt that needs to be paid. Jon falls back asleep, ignoring the fact he's curled around the pillow Punk had been sleeping on, trying to plan paying him back.

"Morning." Punk's voice, some unknown time later comes to him, clear, soft and close. Jon peels the blankets back and rubs at his eyes. Punk's sitting on the other side of the bed, a mug of coffee in his hands, eyes focussed on Jon, the expression in them frustratingly mild and content.

"It's still morning?" Jon groans, clearing his throat and sitting up, the blankets bunching at his waist. He swipes at the hair in his eyes and suddenly Punk is in front of him, his hand running through the mess of Jon's hair, bringing something like order to it or at least keeping it out of his eyes. "You bring me coffee?" Jon asks, his voice still rough, he wants Punk away from him. Right now, those deep eyes are entirely too close, the weight of their gaze is entirely too much. Jon's brain is too fuzzy from sleep to handle that heavy stare.

"I did. I'm a good host." Punk smiles and moves away, back to the other side of the bed. His hand holding another mug of coffee appears before Jon and he almost snatches it, gulping at the liquid inside. "When's your flight?" Punk asks. Jon glances over at him, the other man's sitting there, sipping at his coffee looking entirely relaxed, until you come to his eyes, his stare, focussed on the mug, is dark and desperately confusing. Jon fidgets and sips at his own coffee, trying to focus on something other than the worms in his stomach. He finishes the coffee quickly, the bittersweet liquid burning his throat but he needs, _wants_, out of this room quickly, once he's dealt with the worms at least.

"Hey." He says, Punk's attention turning to him. Jon takes his mug and sets it by the other empty one on the nightstand. Then catches Punk's chin, kissing him, rough and messy, the way he's always kisses Punk. Punk's hands act as they should, tugging at Jon's hair, making it a mess once more. His clothes are shed quickly and Jon presses him onto his back. It takes almost no time to get Punk hard, a few firm strokes, whilst nibbling on the curve of his collarbone, some almost caresses to his cheek whilst kissing him deeply. This is payback so Jon tries to ignore his cock as it slowly hardens but it's trained to react to the sounds of Punk being pleasured. Pavlov's cock, Jon thinks with a smirk and moves down Punk's body, bites at one of his nipples and then keeps going, nips, licks and soft suckles to the skin of Punk's stomach, he wraps his lips around Punk's cock and sucks. His hips buck slightly and Jon goes with it, the faster he gets Punk off, the faster he can get away from him, pay his debt and be done with this. Whatever it is that _that _is, Jon's done, this isn't what he signed up for, Punk is dead and so is their ill-defined and mutually beneficial _thing_.

"Fuck." Punk comes suddenly in Jon's mouth, his hands clutching at his hair. Courtesy makes Jon swallow and he moves away from Punk, gets out of bed and begins pulling on his clothes. "You want me to take you to the airport?" Punk asks, still on the bed, looking soft and mussed up. Jon shakes his head.

"I'll get a cab."

"I can ta-"

"I'll get a cab." He says, now that the decision is made, he's sticking with it. Punk is dead.

Resolve is not something Jon lacks, it's not something he suffers a deficiency of, he has an abundance of it really.

_You get home okay? - CP MUNK 14:56_

_You busy? - CP MUNK 10:46_

_Are you coming to visit again? I want more flowers. - CP MUNK 23:26_

One message for each day, one message Jon ignores. Three days worth of ignoring, three days of messages, three days of _resolve_ and he can feel it cracking. He doesn't do wavering, he doesn't do regrets, any fool can regret things and he's no fool. He doesn't regret but Punk is still offering, the offer of a fuck is still there and Punk is a _good_ fuck. They can try to define this a little better, Jon can make it clear that it's just a fuck he wants, all he's ever wanted from Punk is just a fuck. If Punk wants more, then Jon will find a new fuck, it's that simple really.

"Is Punk in?" Jon asks Cabana, as he appears to be leaving Punk's place. He turns to look at Jon, something close to amusement on his face.

"No, Pu-"

"You gonna tell me he's dead again?" Jon snaps, interrupting the other man. Cabana laughs and shakes his head.

"Well, he is _dead_." He smirks and leans against the door jab.

"What he die of this time?" Jon tightens his grip on the bunch of yellow flowers in his hand. He's sick of these almost conversations with this bastard and he needs to remember to get his money back.

"Verrucas." He sighs and kicks his shoes off, holding the door open for Jon. "He's really not here, went off somewhere." Jon frowns, the flowers feel rather pointless now, perhaps he should have checked rather than just appearing on Punk's doorstep.

"Where?" Jon takes off his own shoes but keeps his jacket on, he's not sure he's staying long, not even sure why he's following Cabana up the stairs into Punk's living room really.

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not psychically linked to Punkers." His voice oddly soft, a fond smile on his lips. Jon's suddenly very certain he's never heard anyone else call Punk by that particular name. _Punk_, _Punker_, the rapidly and brutally shot down _Punky_ but only Colt Cabana calls him _Punkers_. Jon tells himself the bitter taste in the back of his throat isn't jealousy because he's only fucking Punk, no grounds for jealousy. "I got no idea where he is. You wanna drink?" Jon nods and follows him to kitchen. He's never seen this room; not really, the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom, are the only palaces he can say he's spent any time in this place. He sits on a stool and watches as Cabana switches on the kettle, not bothering to ask what it is Jon wants.

"Why are you here?" The question pops out before Jon's even started analysing the situation, his mind having already decided what it wants to know apparently.

"Watering his plants." Cabana shrugs and drops teabags into two mugs. Jon can't say he likes tea, odd and bitter stuff, no matter how much sugar you put in it, it still tastes weird.

"He has plants?" Cabana looks at Jon, blank and cold.

"Yes." The kettle clicks off and Cabana turns his attention back to it, pouring hot water into the mugs. "Don't you _talk_?" He asks, his back turned. Jon almost winces, this really isn't a conversation to be having with this man, this really isn't a conversation to be having with _anyone_.

"Not about plants." Jon mutters, accepting the mug and blowing on the slightly green liquid in it, the steam billowing in his face, bitterly scented.

"Hmm." Cabana, blows on his own mug and sets it down on the counter. "What do you want from him?" Jon has never really considered wishing for the ground to swallow him whole before, never really wanted someone to drop dead so he can avoid talking about something awkward, more than at this very moment before.

"You his mom or something?" Cabana laughs and shakes his head, picks up his mug once more, blowing on the contents and sipping at it carefully.

"He's my..." He pauses, seeming to consider his words carefully. "My _best_ friend." He looks at Jon, his expression sharply judgemental, analysing everything from the way Jon's sitting to his potential mental processes. The feeling of being a failing science project comes over him again.

"You making sure I'm not gonna impinge on his delicate sensibilities." Jon snaps, setting his mug down harshly. "It's Punk I'm fucking not you, got fuck all to do with you." He sneers and Cabana smirks, shaking his head.

"Punk is dead." He says slowly and Jon can feel his fists balling, the urge to punch this smirking bastard in the face is almost overwhelming. "Phil isn't." He says shortly, breaking eye contact with Jon for the first time. "Phil isn't really Punk, well no, that's not quite true. Phil, he's _more_ than Punk." Jon sighs, the fight draining out of him.

"I don't want a heart to heart, Cabana." He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. He really doesn't want a heart to heart, he doesn't want to hear anything that Cabana has to say on this matter, doesn't want his resolve to waver, _again_.

"It's not a heart to heart, Jon, it's a fair warning. If you can't love him, leave him alone." Cabana sighs and pours the dregs of his tea down the drain. "I'll tell him you visited." Jon nods and leaves. The flowers forgotten on the counter.

He knew he didn't want to hear anything Cabana had to say. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. It's easier to have perspective when you're looking back, easier to see where you went wrong, easier but pointless. You can't change your actions, you can only deal with the fallout. _If you can't love him, leave him alone._ A fair warning indeed. Jon shakes his head, he doesn't want to love him, so per the warning, he should leave Phil alone. Phil who is more than Punk, Phil who wants to be cuddled, Phil who demands flowers and laughs at his _best_ friend's jokes, Phil who Jon doesn't know, Phil who he doesn't understand, Phil who he's going to leave _well_ alone.

* * *

******JersmanKay, ********************xLifeFullOfLaughterx, batwolfgirl, ****Rebellecherry, ********littleone1389, InYourHonour, angelsdee327, ****************Brokenspell77**: Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together, my excuses are indeed just those, I'm tired. - Making it, maybe! - I'm glad the chapter deserved some cake though! - Smartass Colt reply, I am so intending to work them into the one chapter he's in after this. - Punk is indeed a contradictory little fucker, it's one of the sexiest things about him. - Not sure it's typical Dean but it is my rather butchered interpretation of Dean's reaction. - I've planned two more chapters after this, so there is a little more. - Many are the bastards bred in Chicago and fine are they to look at. I am glad that you agree on the dirty talk front! Just no! - Growing/Evolving/Changing relationship. I found a way to stop Ambrose dirty talk, thankfully, stick a cock in his mouth, it works. LoL

___So this finally has a plan and a plotline, I'm relieved even if no-one else is. The plan is five chapters, I stress that is the plan, Mr Ambrose and I tend to disagree on things when it comes to finally sitting down to get on with writing. __I'd appreciate any all comments on tricky little shit that is Deano. **Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	4. Digging Graves

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity. _A little flashback to how this all started._

* * *

Jon was backstage at his first WrestleMania and he would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. There was a buzz, an air of anticipation and general chaos, an environment in which he felt comfortable. _Chaos_ was and is an old familiar friend to Jon, something he feels better surrounded by, if anything the more people around him are losing their heads, the more he seems to find his. It feels like being home and it probably shouldn't but then again, he's used to feeling mildly out of place, something else that is familiar and comfortable. Unlike the suit that he'd almost been forced into, something to make him seem more like he should be there, yet he much prefers looking utterly out of place. In this swath of humanity, there was only one other person who really looked out of place, cubs cap pulled low over his eyes, sulking around back stage, an air of _fuck off_ around him, an air that Jon couldn't quite help but want to ignore. The camera crew and photographers stalking around behind him, however, put Jon off, kept him in the shadows, watching, considering the likelihood of his advances being turned down. He'd not initially intended there to be advances but then he watched Punk stretch, watched his sleek body contort and twist into all manner of impossible positions and the decision was made. Propositioning Punk was on the cards and that was the end of the matter.

Finally, the cameras leave him alone and Jon slips into his locker room, he's still in his gear, though the wrist tape and elbow pad have been shed, stretching once more. Cool down, Jon supposes, his match with Jericho had been good. It should have been main event but as everyone knows, _Once in a Life Time_ is far more important than watching the WWE Championship match, nothing says prestigious like being mid-card.

"You looked good." Not a particularly smooth line but Jon isn't playing this for smooth delivery, he's playing for efficiency. Punk looks at him, eyebrow raised.

"What?" He asks, righting himself from being bent at the waist, with his hands on the floor. Jon wishes he'd been facing the other way, having seen it earlier, when Punk was dressed in baggy shorts, the view in tight black spandex has to be even better.

"Your match, it was good." Jon leans against the wall and considers. The biggest hurdle in his desire to fuck Punk is the man himself. He's well noted to be a prickly asshole and at best unapproachable. He doesn't say anything though, just watches as Jon fidgets slightly under his gaze. Jon decides then that trying to read Punk is a fool's game, his eyes are intrinsically unfathomable, deep and dark, there's nothing to be gained from trying. "What?" Jon asks eventually.

"Hmm." Punk sits on a bench, still watching Jon and pulls his shirt over his head. "What?" He asks and Jon sighs, breaks eye contact to stare at the floor, feeling painfully on the back foot, none of the scenarios he'd created had featured Punk just staring at and possibly through, him blankly. "You here to congratulate me?" Punk stands, steps far too close and Jon grabs the back of his head, his hair still damp with sweat and kisses him. Punk's hands are harsh, pulling, scratching claw-like points of pressure and Jon can't help but enjoy that, enjoying the tingles of being treated too roughly.

"Wanna fuck you." Jon mutters against Punk's lips and can feel them stretching into a grin.

"I know." _Smug bastard_ Jon thinks but puts it from his mind as Punk kisses him again, demanding and harsh. Jon moans into it, his hands groping down Punk's back, grabbing his ass, squeezing hard.

"Wanna fuck you so bad." He moans in Punk's ear. "Watch my cock in your tight little ass. Fuck you so hard you're limping." He licks at the side of Punk's neck and pulls him in closer, hands sneaking underneath the spandex of his trunks. Punk's eyes narrow and Jon kisses him before he can make his case for topping. At least that's what Jon assumes he was being glared at for and he squeezes Punk's ass again. "Lube?" Jon asks, his lips brushing over Punk's ear, making him shiver slightly.

"Bag." Punk mutters, stepping away from Jon, walking over to the case in the corner.

"You carry lube with you?" Jon laughs, scratching at the back of his head, making a mess of his hair. "And here I thought promiscuous sex was out in Straight Edge." Punk snorts and stands, shedding his trunks, leaving him standing naked, except for his boots. Jon's eyes wander over his body, lingering over the way the light catches the sweat still on his skin, making the ink of his tattoos brighter.

"Baby oil." Punk tosses Jon the bottle and walks closer. "It's not exactly _lube_ but it'll do." Jon nods and pulls Punk closer again. He makes an odd little noise and it occurs to Jon that he's still dressed in this ridiculous suit, still dressed to impressed and Punk is all but completely naked, the fabric of Jon's clothes has to feel strange against Punk's skin. He pops the cap on the oil and pours some into his hands, rubbing them and easing one finer into to Punk's ass. He fucks that one finger in and out, silently marvelling at the tightness of the body around it. Punk feels tighter than a virgin, tighter than the strings on a stripper's thong. One finger eventually becomes two; Jon spreads them inside Punk, trying to open him up.

"_Relax_." Jon hisses, the only real explanation for how tight Punk is _has_ to be he's tense, he might seem all relaxed and calm but his body _has _to be tense, there's no way he's not been fucked more often than the tightness of his ass would suggest.

"Gimme, I'll do it myself." Punk grabs the bottle from Jon's hand and turns, leans against the wall and eases one finger into himself, fucking his ass with it a little before adding a second and third in quick succession. He seems to accept his own fingers much more easily but then, they're long, thin and by the looks of things, familiar. The fourth finger has Jon coming closer; staring at the way Punk's hole is stretched, spreading around four of his fingers.

"Can you fit five?" Jon asks, the idea just occurring to him and he wishes it hadn't, he's going to be picturing it for weeks. Punk shakes his head and pulls his fingers from himself, glancing at Jon over his shoulder.

"C'mon then." He snaps, voice hard but his eyes odd, _unreadable_, Jon shakes his head, there's no point in trying to read those eyes, he's already decided that. He moves closer to Punk, palming his cock and nudging Punk's thighs further apart.

"You sure you wanna do it like this?" Bent over, leaning against a wall in a locker room, is somehow not how Jon had pictured fucking Punk. Call him a romantic or at least cautious but he'd imagined it to be somewhere a little less backstage at WrestleMania. However, he's not one to argue, not when what he wants is in front of him and what he wants _is _in front of him, prepped and ready to be fucked. He thrusts in slowly. Punk's body, despite the stretching he gave himself, despite the stretching Jon gave him, is still almost painfully tight. "Lube." Jon mutters in Punk's ear and he sighs, grabbing and handing Jon the bottle of baby oil once more. Jon pours more over his cock, careful of his suit pants and manages to breach Punk's body. "Fuck, you're tight." Jon moans, Punk makes an odd growling noise as Jon thrusts his hips forward. "That's it, knew you'd make the prettiest little noises when I fucked this ass." Jon finally is buried fully in Punk's body and he stills, pressed flush against the still slightly sweaty back of Punk, one hand trailing down to run a fingertip under the top of his knee support. "Fucking love your gear, kinky fucking thigh-highs, tiny little trunks and all this bare skin." Jon licks a stripe over the back of Punk's shoulders and mouths at the nape of his neck. "So fucking soft, baby." He mutters, pressing grazing kisses to his shoulders.

"_Enough_." Punk snarls. "Shut the _fuck_ up or I'll castrate you. Fuck me, without providing a shitty running commentary or get out." His voice is low and angry. Jon nods and presses more kisses to the nape of Punk's neck. "No marks, either." He snaps and Jon laughs.

"Demanding, aren't you?" He kisses the tattoo behind Punk's ear and starts moving, hard and fast.

"Perhaps, get on with it." Considering how Jon is fucking him, Punk's voice is annoyingly steady. It's something he wants to change, wants to make that even tone, rough and gasping. He's not sure how but he manages to fuck into Punk _harder_, finally drawing something ragged from him. "More." He gasps and Jon thrusts hard into him again, pressing Punk's face and chest against the wall, one hand on his hip, other arm on the back of his shoulders, keeping him pinned. The pace is almost punishing, for Jon at least, baby oil is not a great lubricant, he finds himself having to reapply it every so often, getting berated by Punk each time he stops. There is something unexpectedly hot about how ill tempered Punk is even during sex, as though even now, he might change his mind and throw Jon out on his ear. Though it seems unlikely given how constant his moans are, how his hips thrust back into Jon's, letting Jon's cock reach deeper inside of him but he is notoriously mercurial.

"Come for me." Jon whispers in Punk's ear, he's almost certain that he'll have to repeat himself, when Punk starts stroking himself, his hand moving quickly. Jon moves his arm, stops pressing Punk against the wall and wraps it around his chest, pulling him so his back is flush with Jon's chest. "C'mon Punk, come for me." Jon forces the kisses he gives Punk's neck to not be nipping and harsh, for them to be open mouthed and wet. He watches as Punk's hand moves quickly, his chest raising and falling rapidly, until he comes, his head back against Jon's shoulder, mouth open but soundless. Jon fucks him through his orgasm, finds his own shortly after and grabs Punk's still come-covered hand. He starts sucking Punk's fingers clean; out of the corner of his eye he can see Punk watching him lazily, no spark of arousal in his eyes just something irritatingly unreadable. Jon pulls out and away.

"Now fuck off." Punk keeps his back turned and Jon nods, pulling his clothes right.

"Yeah, yeah." He pauses, considers Punk's back, the slight trickle of Jon's cum down his thigh. "So, uh..." Jon isn't quite sure what to say now, this shouldn't be a problem but Punk really was a good fuck, one he'd like again.

"What? You hoping I'll give you a leg up? Fuck off, go hitch your horse to a different wagon. Cena'll be done by now." He mutters, sitting on the bench to take off his boots.

"Hoping for a repeat performance, actually." Jon says, watching him carefully.

"Implicit." Punk snaps and Jon finds himself staring at him.

"_Implicit_?" He repeats, feeling slightly out of the loop.

"Straight Edge." He points at the tattoo arching over his stomach. "Don't drink, don't smoke, don't fuck around." Jon finds himself swallowing heavily, remembering the quip he'd made earlier and wondering if he's bitten off more than he can chew.

"Well, next time then." Jon clears his throat and leaves the room, his mind buzzing with potential.

* * *

**********************************littleone1389, ********************************angelsdee327, ************************************************Brokenspell77, ********************************InYourHonour, ************************Rebellecherry****************:** Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together, my excuses remain just those, I'm tired. - Resistance is perhaps futile but flashbacks aren't? - Definitely, Cabana is a fierce BFF! - Mouthful of cock is for sure the best way to stop most forms of verbal diarrhoea. - I know I'm certainly more than interested in what the damn beautiful man has been up to on his sabbatical. :3

_So Deano is a bit of an ass when it comes to me having plans and has ones of his own, this wasn't supposed to be entirely a flashback and yet... __I'd appreciate any all comments on tricky little shit that is Deano. **Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	5. In Memoriam

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Profanity.

* * *

Time passes, Jon moves on with his life. It's busy being a WWE _Superstar_, busy, tiring, and frustrating but he and the rest of The Shield are riding a wave of actually good booking. Their split delayed by a face turn that hasn't proven as ill advised as he first thought it might. His natural inclination is to play heel, he prefers playing the bad guy but Joe and Colby are faces, it's built into them to get people to cheer for them so he was turned face by default.

If he's truly honest with himself, he's grateful the audience has stopped chanting _CM Punk_; it's easier not to think of Punk when people aren't screaming his name. Cabana's warning plays in the back of Jon's mind. _If you can't love him, leave him alone_. Jon can't love him, is utterly certain of that so he's done exactly as asked. This whole thing, it started because of a mutual need for something physical, it was never about emotions, never about anything but the physical pleasure they could give each other. Punk is dead, Phil is alive. Punk wanted the same thing as Jon, Phil is looking for something more and Jon isn't. It's not a problem not anymore, after a solid week of not replying to his texts, he stopped sending them and that's what Jon wanted, it truly is, at least that's what he tells himself whenever he looks at the blank screen of his cell. They've parted ways, separated over something very fundamental, something that they would never be able to resolve. Phil wants more because he is more, Jon isn't so he doesn't.

"You get some chick pregnant?" Colby's voice comes a shock, Jon was sitting quietly considering what to do, when he speaks, sounding equal parts interested and concerned.

"What? No!" Jon frowns, spinning his cell around again. It's somehow become a habit, something he does when he's thinking.

"Really? Cause there's not any other reason for you to be playing with your damn phone so much." Jon frowns and stuffs his phone in his pocket. As soon as it's out of sight, something inside of him feels antsy, uncomfortable and it makes little sense. He's not used to this feeling, is not used to a whole host of feelings he's been having lately. This Punk situation is unexpected, unplanned for, not considered even briefly and it's infuriating.

"I'm thinking." Jon murmurs, standing, crossing the room, walking to the window, looking out into the street, watching the people pass-by.

"You going to sort things out with him?" Colby sounds exasperated and Jon turns to stare at him.

"Who?" Jon snaps, arms folding over his chest, he was certain that his relationship with Punk had been ill defined, mutually beneficially and _secret_.

"C'mon, I'm only half dumb blond." Colby laughs and Jon sighs, scrubbing at his face. "Something's happened between you and Punk."

"Punk is dead." Irritated is something Jon is getting used to feeling, his fuse feels short these days.

"He looked pretty alive in those hockey game pictures." Jon scowls and turns back to look out of the window. "Alive and well, I'd say."

"_Phil_." Jon mutters. "Phil is alive and well. Punk is dead. I was fucking Punk." He sighs and scrubs at his face again.

"So, go talk to him." Colby laughs again and Jon sighs once more, this is ridiculous, he feels like the fucking main character in some made for teenagers romance novel, all this sighing and feeling maudlin. "If Punk's dead, stop mourning the fucking asshole and move on or go talk to Phil. Simple." Colby laughs once more and stands. "Anything to stop you being even more of a miserable sack of shit, man. I'm sick of it."

"Yeah, maybe." Colby might have a point there, if Punk is dead there's only so long Jon can _mourn_ him. There has to be a decision made. _If you can't love him, leave him alone_. Jon doesn't know Phil, has been, he supposes, mourning the loss of his easy fuck buddy. _Go talk to him_. It's solid advice, its good advice, its advice he should take under consideration.

"We're off the next few days, go see him, yeah?" Colby stands by the window, making a show of looking out of it but really; he's not subtle in his watching Jon's reflection in the glass.

"Yeah, yeah, maybe." Jon shakes his head and steps away. "C'mon, we've got a show to do."

His flight gets into O'Hare far quicker than he'd wanted it too really. He's thought on this Punk situation long and hard but he's still like a little more time. You can't love someone you don't know and he already _likes_ the bits of Phil that are Punk, the rest of him, well, Jon will have to get to know them, he supposes. There's no more time to consider this, it's time for action now.

The lady in the flower store smiles at him, an easy expression that he knows, he doesn't manage to return.

"Your lady friend is a lucky girl." She says, as she wraps a ribbon round the bunch of flowers. Jon laughs and shakes his head.

"I wanna card on it, this one." He points to one of the little cards in the display, the Chicago flag on it.

"Do you want to write it?" She asks, her voice soft, accent not local.

"No, ma'am, my handwriting's terrible." He lies easily; he mostly wants to shock this bustling little old lady.

"Well, then, what'll I write?" She smiles again, all wrinkles and geniality.

"To Phil, potentially with love, Jon. No _h_." Her eyes widen but she says nothing, her smile unfaltering.

"You want some kisses on it, honey?" She asks, her pen hovering over the card and Jon shakes his head. "Well, let's hope this potential's realised." She grins. "I always appreciate repeat customers." She's apparently lived here long enough to become a Chicago bred bastard, even if she's not got the accent, Jon thinks, handing her the money and leaving the store, hailing a cab, giving the driver Phil's address.

When he arrives, Cabana is just leaving, the door open and him straightening his cap. He spots Jon and scowls.

"I know." Jon says before Cabana can open his mouth.

"Why are you here?" He snaps, looking furious. Something dark clenches in Jon's chest, bitter jealousy burning in the back of his throat.

"You being Mr Rebound?" Jon has never wished to take something back more than that, instead of anger or indignant denial, Cabana laughs, long and hard, with tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

"Really? No!" He manages to get out between laughs. "Me and Punkers? Oh fuck no, I _know_ him!" He leans against the door jab, a smile on his face. "Fuck me, you _actually_ really do think that?" His expression sobering as he looks at Jon.

"I..." Jon rubs the back of his head and looks away. "Is Punk in?" He changes the subject, doesn't particularly want Cabana to keep laughing at him, doesn't particularly want to examine the feeling of relief that settles inside of him.

"Punk is dead." His smile creeps back on his face but takes on an odd resigned edge. "Hardened earwax." He sighs and shakes his head. "Why _are_ you here?" Jon sighs, fidgets slightly and holds up the bunch of flowers, bright and sunny yellow.

"Is Phil here?" He manages to force a smile and Cabana's eyes narrow. "I don't know Phil, so I don't know, okay?" He grinds out, feeling like he's making his case to an over-protective father, in some ways that really is the case, no matter what, Cabana is going to have Phil's back, Scott looks out for Phil, as much as Punk ever gave Cabana as much international props as he could. They're a team; it's something Jon is going to have to deal with but right now, not something he wants to consider overly.

"He's a bastard." Cabana laughs. "But he's my best friend, you hurt him, I castrate you." People should not look and sound so very genial whilst delivering threats of mutilation, Jon thinks. "Apparently, I owe you $30 for a pizza?" Cabana roots in his pocket and produces a roll of bills, all one-dollars. Chicago breeds bastards, manipulative, petty, over-protective, infuriating bastards. He walks down the steps and stops, turns to Jon, his mouth open to speak but an odd expression crosses his face and he shakes his head instead.

"I'll be careful." Jon says awkwardly, he's not sure if it's what Cabana wanted to hear, not sure if it's even close but it's the only thing Jon can think of saying. It gets a vague nod and Cabana leaves, walks away down the sidewalk, leaving Jon standing alone outside of Phil's house. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. _Go and talk to him_. It's easy for Colby to say that, he's got a steady woman, he's got a relationship, he's not perched on a tightrope with castration on one side and the unknown on the other. The unknown, the one thing Jon loves and fears in equal measure.

"I thought you went home." Phil is sitting on the sofa, watching what appears to be a gardening show.

"I can, if you like." Jon says and watches as Phil practically bounces off the sofa, stalking over to him. Phil looks torn between furious and elated, neither emotion winning the battle for dominance. "I just got here but if you want me to, I can go." He holds out the flowers and something in Phil's eyes settles, something in them seems more at peace, his anger bleeding away.

"I... No, stay, please, stay. You want some coffee?" He asks, walking towards the kitchen. This is the second time Jon's been in this room, the second time he's watched a Chicago bred bastard make him something to drink here. Phil busies himself with setting up the coffee machine. "I may burn this, keep an eye on it for me." He smiles slightly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking mildly uncomfortable. "So, uh..." He trails off and opens a cupboard, pulls out a vase and fills it with water, the coffee machine burbling in the background.

"I hear you have plants." Jon smiles, feels awkward and can't help but laugh when Phil looks surprised.

"I do, sunflowers." He smiles slightly. "Still pretty small right now but in the summer, I'll put them out in pots and they'll get pretty big." He leaves the room with his vase of flowers. Jon can feel something settle in his chest and worms awakening in his stomach. "Why are you here?" Phil says, as he comes back into the kitchen, the flowers put somewhere else.

"Your mom gave me a warning, I had to think bout it." He looks horribly confused, messes up his hair some and frowns.

"When did y... Oh! Cabana!" He shakes his head. "He's my best friend, he looks out for me." He shrugs and pours two cups of coffee, mixing sugar in with Jon's without being asked to. "What'd he say?" He leans against the counter by the coffee machine and stares into his cup.

"Told me to leave you alone." He stares at Jon, his eyes wide, shock settling in them. "_If _I couldn't love you, that is." Jon forces a smile to his face. "Kept telling me Punk was dead, took a long time to work out what he meant." Phil shakes his head with a smile and sips his coffee. "Your fucking city breeds nothing but cryptic bastard, you know that?" He laughs and sets his cup down.

"Not cryptic, just smarter than you." He grins and Jon snorts.

"Cryptic, sphinx bastards, who never say what they mean." A smirk settles on Phil's lips and he laughs again.

"I always say what I mean." Jon snorts again and drinks some of his coffee.

"Never in a way a normal person can understand." He smirks back at Phil, gets off the stool he's perched on and stands in front of him.

"Cabana knows what I'm talking about." Phil fidgets slightly but stands straighter.

"Well, the natives of this freezing shithole would have to understand each other or nothing would happen." Jon's hands rest on his waist, fingers stroking his sides through the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of the flesh underneath.

"You keep insulting my city and I'm throwing you out." He scowls slightly, a glimmer of Punk in him; it makes Jon want to laugh. Phil is Punk, just with little extra bits, odd, cuddly extras but still Punk, still the man he was fucking, still the man he was, is _attracted _to. "Wait, _you're _normal now?" Phil's own hands settle nervously on Jon's shoulders.

"Absolutely, the most normal guy in this room. Your city is a miserable place, though. It's fucking freezing and full of bastards who make no sense but..." Jon trails off, moves one hand up Phil's back, to tangle in his hair, drawing him closer.

"But?" He asks softly, letting Jon kiss him.

"O'Hare's a nice airport, lots of direct flights, plenty that go to Vegas. You'd like Vegas, its warm, plenty of stupid people to laugh at, lots of UFC. It's good." Jon kisses him again, taking his time to taste every inch of his mouth. Kissing Phil and kissing Punk are two different things and Jon _thinks_, he's going to enjoy the former so much more. "No State Tax in Nevada, too." Jon mutters, kissing Phil again, his hands growing a little more adventurous, one squeezing his ass gently.

"My house is in Chicago." It's a rather simple statement, but it's one that Jon thinks he understands the meaning behind. _My house_ means my friends, my family, my bastard best friend, my home. Phil won't give these things up for him and Jon isn't certain he'd want Phil to, not really, at this stage, he'd rather keep it like this, Phil with his home and Jon with Vegas.

"Still, Vegas is nice for a visit." Jon offers, a visit would be good, having Phil in his home, that isn't a home, a place he sees once a month if he's lucky but having him there, that would change it, there'd be flowers if nothing else.

"That's true." Phil concedes and kisses Jon this time, tentative at first, growing bolder, his hands not quite grabbing and desperate because that is what Punk had been. Desperate for something that Phil wanted but Punk didn't quite know how to get. The brutally direct approach of their first fuck, that was all Punk but this slower meandering one, with its taking time to look at the flowers, that's all Phil. There's a path, a direct path, certainly, but Phil would rather be sure he's walked every inch of it, before getting to the end. Jon returns the kiss slowly, his hands stroking over Phil's back, taking time to look at the flowers is something that's going to take some getting used to but, he thinks it will be worthwhile, thinks that he's finished mourning Punk and is finally ready to move on with Phil.

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******************************************************************angelsdee327, l************************************ittleone1389,****************************************************************************Brokenspell77********************************, ************************Rebellecherry, alizabethian****************:** Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together, my excuses remain just those, I'm feeling rather hungover... But thank you all for reviewing, favourite-ing and following. I had fun with this little story, I hope you did too! :3

_I'd appreciate any all comments on tricky little shit that is Deano. _

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_

_Wanna fire me a slashy prompt, please feel free, I'll consider it!_


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